


Extraordinary Machine

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural, The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26830978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: The man cocks his head to the side. It's not a soothing gesture. Dean doesn't suppose it's meant to be. “You aren’t used to people giving you things.”“The world isn’t exactly a giving kind of place.”The man chuckles. It’s a strange laugh, like someone’s idea of a laugh if someone took the phrase ‘good-natured’ and distilled it. It sets Dean’s teeth on edge.*Dean meets a charming man while working a frustrating case. He lets himself be charmed.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Raymond Reddington
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	Extraordinary Machine

**Author's Note:**

> I've written a fic that nobody wants, but goddammit, _I_ wanted it, so here it is.

Sam and Dean have been hunting a vamp nest for weeks. The most elusive, goddamn  _ invisible _ vamp nest they’ve ever encountered. They move like ghosts, there and then gone. It’s impossible to pin them down, and all the while, the bodies keep piling up.

This was supposed to be it—their big break. Mrs. Marshal had seen her husband’s murder, and she’d called the number they gave her. She sounded panicked and waterlogged—frightened as she asked Dean to please, please come meet her. She’d sounded drunk. She’d given him the name of a swanky hotel downtown, and Dean had shot off a quick text to Sam and booked it, seizing the moment before it fled.

He’d almost had it—the lead they needed. Mrs. Marshal had been about to spill her guts when she suddenly got spooked, going white as a sheet and begging off between one word and the next. Dean still doesn’t know what happened. No amount of convincing would get her to stay, would get her to talk about her deceased husband or what happened that night in their bedroom. Dean’s not  _ great _ at knowing when to give it a rest, but he gives it up around the time one of the carefully dressed guards starts eyeing him up.

The man materializes at the side of their table a second later, appearing through the crowd and neatly imposing himself between Dean and Mrs. Marshal, who dabs at her watery mascara and tugs her purse back onto her shoulder, sniffling into a tissue.

“Is there a problem here?” the man asks, tall and broad, built like Sam if Sam was a house.

“No problem,” Dean says, letting a slick smile curve across his face. The guard ignores him, turning his attention on Dean’s fleeing witness.

“No,” she echoes shakily. “No problem. I was just leaving.”

“Please—” Dean tries one more time, ignoring the look the guard gives him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, but no. I can’t help you. Please don’t bother me again.”

He’s left standing empty-handed, already starting after her.

“Don’t,” the guard says, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean twitches it off with raised eyebrows. He thinks about throwing a punch, but hell, he’s not looking for a concussion tonight.

“Okay,” he says, holding up his hands. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s not what it looked like.”

“Looked like the lady said no, and you developed selective hearing.”

The guard doesn’t go anywhere, and Dean doesn’t much care. He ignores the silent presence, digging around in his jacket pocket and pulling out a few crumpled bills. He’s about to settle up—get out of this high-priced hellhole and go somewhere he can get a real drink that doesn’t come with a $20 price tag.

The guard shows no sign of budging any time soon, still hovering by his side, clearly waiting for Dean to be on his way too, and Dean can’t wait. This place is starting to make his skin crawl anyway.

“You and me both, man,” he mutters under his breath.

He wishes Sam were here. Sam’s always better with the witnesses. He’s got those doe eyes and the ‘you can trust me’ smile that gets people spilling their guts for him—men, women, grannies, kids. Dean can pry information out of tough customers, but Sammy’s got the soft touch.

Just then, a drink materializes tableside, a cocktail that comes with a white little napkin and the white smile of the waitress who serves it.

Dean shakes his head. “Uh, sorry, my friend took off, so if you want to send that back—”

“It’s from the man at the end of the bar,” the waitress says.

Dean’s eyebrows take a hike into his hairline. He coughs. “That’s great, but I don’t want it.” He slides it back across the little table.

She doesn’t  _ shrug. _ Dean guesses this is the kind of place where you don’t get hired if you shrug, but her lips twitch in something that might be amusement. She pauses before saying, “You don’t have to drink it, but it’s already paid for.”

She slides it back across the table, and then she’s gone in a flash of swishing, burnished brown ponytail. Jesus, even her  _ hair _ looks expensive.

Dean flops back into his seat as obnoxiously as possible and flashes a grin at the definitely annoyed bouncer. He takes a sip of the drink just to be a pain in the ass. “What? Gotta finish my drink, don’t I? I’d hate to be rude.”

The man shoots him a dirty look before fading back into standing unobtrusively against a far wall, and Dean is left with the drink in front of him and all its implications.

As soon as the guard leaves, Dean pushes the drink away again. He doesn’t mean to look at the end of the bar—he  _ doesn’t— _ but curiosity gets the better of him. The man is more or less exactly what he was expecting. Older, with short-clipped greying hair and a little bit of a paunch to him. He looks like every other rich douchebag in the place. The man catches Dean’s eye, and his lip quirks up. He raises his hand in acknowledgment, and Dean looks away quickly.

Dean is annoyed but not particularly surprised when the chair opposite him is pulled out and filled with the same man a few minutes later.

He sighs. “Look, I tried to tell the waitress—”

The man raises his hand. “The drink is on me. No strings attached.”

Dean snorts. “Right.”

The man cocks his head to the side. It's not a soothing gesture. Dean doesn't suppose it's meant to be. “You aren’t used to people giving you things.”

“The world isn’t exactly a giving kind of place.”

The man chuckles. It’s a strange laugh, like someone’s idea of a laugh if someone took the phrase ‘good-natured’ and distilled it. It sets Dean’s teeth on edge. “It can be, if you know the right people. Once I found myself in Tunisia in the middle of a beautiful bazaar. There was this woman selling the most delightful lablabi you’ve ever had in your life. Have you ever had it? Well, I’d just been accosted by a band of marauders and found myself without a cent to my name. They took my wallet, passport, watch, everything. They even took my shoes, if you can believe it.” There’s that laugh again. “So, anyway—”

“I don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“‘If I can believe it’—I don’t. You’re full of shit.”

The man’s gaze sharpens. He smiles, polite as anything, but to Dean it looks more like baring his teeth. All at once, he relaxes and chuckles. “Alright, fine, there were no marauders. I did have an excellent bowl of lablabi.” He nods toward Dean’s drink. “You should finish that. The Prosecco’s not the same once it starts to warm.”

Dean does, knocking back the expensive cocktail like a shot, mostly to nettle his unwanted guest. His companion seems utterly unperturbed. He raises his hand in a small, unobtrusive gesture, and the waitress materializes at their table a few minutes later, bearing another one of the same for Dean and a martini for the stranger.

Dean stares at his drink for a few seconds before picking it up. The first one was delicious, and the second is the same. The little curl of orange zest at the bottom of the glass tickles his lip while he drinks. They sip their drinks in silence for a while, and Dean is glad of the lack of conversation.

He expected the man to hit on him. This companionable silence is unexpected, but infinitely preferable. The man doesn’t stare, doesn’t look at Dean with sticky, covetous eyes. He enjoys his martini, reclining in his chair like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be in the world.

“My name is Raymond,” the man says after a while. “But you can call me Red.”

“Dean.”

It’ll only occur to him later that he didn’t even consider giving Red a fake name.

* * *

“You struck out earlier tonight.”

They’ve been drinking for a while. Dean isn’t drunk, but he’s well on his way, floating in the land of easy, comfortable languor.

“That wasn’t what it looked like,” Dean says. He cares, for some reason. Cares that this guy knows he’s not a creep—not the type of man who doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. He doesn’t know why it matters.

“Business, not pleasure. I know,” Red says.

Dean gives him a look but doesn’t ask how he knows. The man’s not a hunter. He knows that much.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

“I’m a businessman.”

There’s something there. Dean doesn’t care to scratch at it too hard. You keep your secrets, and I’ll keep mine.

“Why are you talking to me?” Dean asks eventually.

“Because you struck me as the most interesting person in this very large, very dull room.”

Dean can’t help but smirk. “I can’t imagine I’m your type.”

There’s that grin again, sharp and predatory. “I can assure you, you have no idea what my type is.”

Dean makes a decision then, blood humming pleasantly in his veins, warm from the inside out. He finishes his drink and sets the delicate glass down with a decisive click. He licks his lips and doesn’t miss the way Red’s eyes linger. “I don’t suppose you have a room here.”

Red smiles, pleased and easy. “A suite, in fact. I don’t suppose you’d care to see it?”

Red settles their tab without money ever changing hands, and Dean follows him to his room, Red’s hand a warm, familiar pressure against the small of his back.

It’s a good night, one that has Dean waking later than usual, 10 a.m. and the full warmth of midmorning sunlight blaring across his face. He drags a hand over his eyes, sitting up to find himself alone in a very large, very clean bed surrounded by slippery white sheets and blankets that still smell like expensive laundry detergent underneath the sweat.

Red is gone, but there’s a hot cup of coffee waiting for him in a chipless white mug and a note instructing him to take his time and stay as long as he likes.

Dean drinks the coffee—it’s good and hot. Nothing at all like the stuff back at their motel, and Dean feels a twinge of guilt as he goes to check his phone. It’s full of messages from Sam. He gulps the coffee down, already typing a response one-handed. He relishes the liquid burn down his throat, yanking on his clothes between sips. He’s dressed by the time the coffee’s gone.

He leaves and doesn’t look back, back into the fray and their stupid fucking vamp goose chase.

* * *

He doesn’t think about it again.

That is, he doesn’t think of it until he catches sight of a familiar man on the TV, the news playing low in the background while he and Sam research yet another case in yet another room. There’s a story about the capture of Raymond Reddington, apparently a notorious criminal wanted for conspiracy, murder, embezzlement, the list goes on. It’s impressive enough that Dean whistles low under his breath, reaching for the remote to turn it up.

The noise catches Sam’s attention. “What’s up?” He follows Dean’s gaze to the TV. “Oh, that. He apparently turned himself into FBI custody a few days ago.”

“Why?” The question leaves Dean’s mouth before he can think better of it.

Sam shrugs. “Some kind of immunity deal.”

“Huh.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “You’re awfully interested. What happened to giving me crap about my true crime hobby?”

Dean turns away from the TV, stabbing a finger at Sam. “For the record, that’s not a hobby. A hobby is baseball, or collecting stamps or something. That’s just morbid.” He shrugs, switching off the TV. “Anyway, I just met the guy once, is all.”

Sam sits up. “What? You  _ met _ Raymond Reddington? When? How? Where was I?”

_ Hobby, _ Dean’s ass.

“You remember that case back in New York?”

He sees Sam wracking his brain, sees the exact moment when he makes the connection. “The vampire daycare.” His eyes narrow. “You didn’t.”

Dean shrugs innocently.

“Dean! He's the FBI's fourth most wanted.”

“And who’s number seven and eight?”

Sam huffs. “Yeah, but he  _ deserves _ to be on that list. He’s a criminal.”

“So are we.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s not the same and you know it,” but he’s smiling again, and that’s most of what Dean cares about. He goes back to his research and so does Dean. A while later, Dean catches a murmured, “I can’t fucking believe you.”

“That’s what he said.”

Sam makes a face. “Gross, dude.”

Dean snorts, big brother mode in full swing. “Takes one to know one.”

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat and throws a pillow at Dean. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Dean catches it and throws it back, everything about the news already forgotten. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture)


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